Should
by tastewithouttalent
Summary: "Irie is never ready for the nightmares." Even in the present, Irie dreams of an unformed future. Part two and final of the Alternate series. Sequel to Care.


Irie is never ready for the nightmares.

It would almost be better if they came with some kind of regularity. He would dread them, but at least he would have some warning, would _know_ that it's coming for him and could brace himself accordingly. But he never expects it, it's always a surprise and he never remembers, in the midst of it, that it is a dream. It's no help that they're formed of his borrowed memories, recollections of a future that never happened; that just makes it the more real, until he can feel the heat of the flames on his face as they envelop Byakuran, can hear the cheers of victory rise around him while his own world comes crumbling in around him. Sometimes he breaks down right there, folds in over himself and sobs himself hoarse before he makes it off the battlefield; usually it's the way it was in truth, and he can restrain the ache of tears behind his eyes and the wail in his throat until he has sent the Vongola off and is safely alone with the shaky vacuum of meaningless in his chest.

Tonight it's the second option. He closes his eyes to the light of the laboratory, finally relaxes into the drowning force of his grief, and when he opens them again it's to darkness, the shadows of a bedroom and the choking sound of sobs in his throat disorienting him into unfamiliarity. There's just the loss, so vast and overwhelming that he can't even place where he is, can't think through why he feels the need to stay quiet. He tries to supress the tears anyway but once started they refuse to stop, they're pouring down his cheeks no matter how hard he presses his palms to his eyes to match the sobs that tear from his throat whenever he tries to take a breath.

There's a whine from over his shoulder, a tiny sound of protest the only warning Irie gets before the warmth of another body presses in against his back.

"Sho-chan." It's a protest, high and whimpering. An arm shoves in under Irie's elbow, drags the other back over the sheets. "You woke me up."

Irie closes his fingers on Byakuran's wrist, squeezes hard enough that Byakuran hisses in protest at the ache. "Sorry." Some of the tension in his chest is easing under Byakuran's touch, like the other's body is sapping the ache of panic and grounding him into reality. "I was having a nightmare."

"Really?" Byakuran sounds interested, so sincerely curious it's only experience that keeps Irie from taking him seriously. There's a laugh against his hair, the warm of breath blowing against his ear. "The one where you watch me die?"

"That's the only one I ever have," Irie says, trying for irritation that just comes out sounding like a sob. Byakuran giggles again, presses his face against Irie's hair and fits his other arm under the other's head, slotting his elbow in under the other's neck.

"It's fine," he purrs, like that's enough to ease the horror, but he's fitting in closer too, angling his arm up to dig his fingers into Irie's hair and pull the other back so he can fit his chin against the top of Irie's head, and that _is_ helping. "I'm not, you know."

"I _know_," Irie says. He reaches up over his shoulder with his free hand, grabs for the stability of Byakuran's elbow, and Byakuran lets him, hums against his hair and swings his leg up over Irie's hip. He's all sharp edges, knees and elbows and too-thin fingers, and the shape of mockery is audible under the little filler noises he makes, every one cast in the form of a laugh, but he's warm and alive and unquestionably here, and the worst of the dark terror fades away until Irie can take a breath without choking on the air.

"Here," Byakuran murmurs, twists his hand so he's the one holding Irie's wrist and not the other way around. He pulls Irie's arm up, drags his fingers into place, and Irie is just catching on when Byakuran presses his first two fingers against the side of his throat.

"See?" Byakuran is smiling, Irie can hear it without needing to look up. "Definitely alive." His pulse is slow, steady and heavy against Irie's fingertips; Irie swallows, blinks, keeps his hand where it is while Byakuran wraps his arm back around the other. He pulls closer, this time, slides his hand up farther so Irie's not surprised when the shape of fingers curl against his throat. Byakuran's thumb is pressed against his pulse, his fingers pressing gently against the motion of fading sobs in Irie's throat in something that feels a little like a threat and a lot like a collar.

"You are too, Sho-chan," Byakuran says, as calmly as if this was something Irie might be confused about. His fingers are warm, steady contact at Irie's skin, and Irie can't shift for the leg against his hip and can't swallow without feeling the movement flutter against Byakuran's palm.

It shouldn't be as easy as it is to shut his eyes and let calm wash back into his blood, but Irie has gotten very good at ignoring _should_ in favor of _is_, and when sleep returns, the nightmares don't.


End file.
